


Sides Of The Coin

by FiraTook



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Gen, tw abuse, tw homelessness, tw s/lf h/rm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23503228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiraTook/pseuds/FiraTook
Summary: Jeritza, the Death Knight, Emile. They all share one body, but their personalities and motivations are different. How did it come to be this way?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. Part One: Troubled Upbringing

The day was bright, and a pair of kids were playing outside in the garden. They laughed as they chased each other around the rose bushes. The younger, a boy, was attempting to tag his older sister. They ran circles around one of the smaller bushes, the boy following just behind the girl. The girl’s long hair bounced as she ran, and the boy’s fingers just barely caught a few strands. “Ow,” the girl commented as the loose strands caught on a knot. With a, “Sorry!” from her brother, she was quick to laugh it off. Her brother had stopped momentarily to see if she had somehow been injured. He was now on the opposite side of the bush. The girl laughed and stuck her tongue out at him.

The boy crouched lower, grinning and giggling, “We’ll get you yet,” he declared, “just you wait, Mercedes!” The girl in question simply stuck her tongue out at him again. The boy backed up a ways, then sprinted toward the bush. Mercedes’ eyes widened, “Wait, Emile!” She called a warning, but she was too late. The young boy was already in the air, attempting to vault over the rose bush. He had almost cleared it, but his foot fell too low, and caught in the shrub. He lost his balance, lost his form, and fell. Almost instinctively, Mercedes reached to catch Emile. Their heads collided, but the fall was broken.

The slap of skull-backed skin rang through the garden, catching the attention of their mother who had been tending to a plant a few feet away. She walked toward the pair as they untangled themselves and held their heads. She knelt beside the pair, “What happened?” Her voice carried delicately as she brushed the hair from her childrens’ foreheads. Tears flowed freely from Mercedes’ blue eyes, though she tried her best to stay silent. Her mother kissed the place of impact, and she answered, “Emile tried to jump over the bush,” she paused to breathe, “he tripped.” After kissing the top of Mercedes’ head, the mother turned her attention to her son. His face bore streaks from tears, but they did not flow as freely as his sister’s. Instead they pooled in front of his eyes, blue and vacant, before slowly snaking their way down his face. “Emile?” The woman asked, but the boy did not answer. He continued to stare ahead at nothing.

Emile swayed slightly. He felt light, as if some force was pulling him away from the ground. And yet, the grass of the garden still sat beneath him. He blinked, what was going on? Though he tried, he could not bring his concentration back to the present. He continued to float, his vision becoming cloudy. He blinked again. Where was he? He felt a presence behind him, then beside him. But, where did they come from? Why-

The boy shook his head and grimaced as he looked around. This place again. The light was much too bright. The colors much too bold. His head hurt. Something had happened that had hurt him. Someone was reaching toward him. Toward his head. He growled and smacked the hand away. He stood, backing away, breath heavy.

“Emile,” The boy’s mother spoke with a tender voice, “Emile, it’s me. It’s your mother.” She cooed to the boy, folding her hands in her lap. The panting child shook his head again, “My...mother…” As he breathed, his vision became clearer. Slowly, the cloud lifted. “What... happened?” Mercedes ran toward her brother, who braced himself for an attack. He was surprised to find that the girl wrapped her arms around him. “Right,” he thought, “she doesn’t mean us harm…”

“I tried to catch you when you jumped,” she said, tearfully, “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.” She cried into the crook of his neck. The boy hesitantly returned her hug, but that would only last a moment. He became confused, feeling pulled away from the physical plane. There was no danger this time… 

That was not the case one (of several) evenings nearly a year later, when a brown haired boy came in from outside crying. His step-mother rushed toward him as she did for all of her children, asking what happened. He pointed as Mercedes ran inside after him, “She hit me!” Baron Bartels, the boy’s father, entered the room at that moment. His eyes moved from his son to his wife’s daughter, to his son again. The boy wailed, and the child’s tears filled the Baron with rage. He moved towards Mercedes’, the girl’s eyes filled with fear. He raised a large hand. The girl’s mother turned her gaze to the floor, knowing if she would intervene the consequences would be worse. As the last rays of light fell behind Emile’s feet in the doorway, the Baron’s hand came down across Mercedes’ cheek. The force of the strike sent her backward, turning her porcelain skin a deep red.

Emile’s feet flew from the doorway. He fell onto his knees and slid to where his sister lay on the walnut floor. He brushed the hair out of her face, “Mercedes? Mercedes, wake up..” The girl did not stir. Emile began to hyperventilate, “No, no..” He felt as though he was floating again. And with that, he was gone.

The boy groaned, his head hurt again. But not because he had been struck. Instead, this was a pulsing, pounding headache. He massaged his temples and shook his head. When he regained clear vision, he saw Emile’s sister before him- passed out, her cheek deep red. He looked around for the location of the culprit, for he knew who it was. His cool gaze fell upon Baron Bartels, who stood like a tower over the pair of them.

“Think carefully about what you do next, boy.” His speech was slurred, and the scent of alcohol wafted toward the child with each word. The boy growled, he kneeled, then lunged for his father. The man easily held him back. After all, no matter how old this person felt, he resided in the body of an eight year old. He yelled with anger and hurled his fists despite this, wanting nothing more than to dispose of this _idiot_ that made life such torment for him. But he wasn’t strong enough. He wasn’t big enough. He wasn’t old enough. As his arms were grabbed, as his strikes halted, as his body was thrown aside, he vowed he would get stronger. And as he collided with the wall, the wind knocked out of him, he vowed he would make the Bartels pay for what they’ve done to him, to Emile’s sister, and to Emile’s mother.

The ensuing argument could be heard clearly through the walls of the manor well into the morning. The boy heard Emile’s mother’s sobs clearly through the wall between his room and his parents’. The boy pulled at his blond hair, clenching his teeth and growling. How could it come to this? How could he let this happen? The mother was suffering because the body was too small. Too young. Too _weak._ He was none of those things, but it didn’t matter. He would have to be crafty if he was to have his revenge. He would have to become one with the shadows, gain the ability to slink in darkness. He would bring justice for the sister and mother the only way a _weak creature_ like him could. He would become his family’s knight. Their Death Knight.

And so, when Emile’s mother and sister inevitably found the right time to run away, he stayed behind. He had to protect them. He was the heir, after all. If he left, they would inevitably be found. And so, like a good, _loyal,_ son, he stayed behind. His father praised him that night for the first time, thanking him for not siding with that harlot. That tramp. The Death Knight grinned with his father. His cold gaze and empty laughter, unfitting of an eight year old boy, went unnoticed by his father and half-siblings. And when the Baron passed out, and his siblings fell asleep, the Death Knight formed a plan.

“Emile” became the perfect child. He did all that his father wished, he lived as he was told to live. He trained with the sword. He trained with the scythe. He built up his wit, and built up his might. At night, when the Baron and his children were asleep, he would practice stealth. He would slink around the manor. He learned the crevices, the secret pathways, the places that would make good shelter should he need to hide away. And five years later, the time came.

The Baron had learned of the whereabouts of Mercedes and her mother. He had wished to bring them both home, but one of the Baron’s children brought up that the woman would be too old to bear strong children anymore. Baron Bartels agreed, and decided it best to kill his ex-wife, and marry Mercedes instead. He gathered his children round for a feast, “Tonight marks the eve of House Bartels’ salvation.” And so, the alcoholic drank until he passed out.

When everyone was unconscious, the Death Knight drew a dagger, and crept silently from room to room. A hand on the mouth, a slit of the throat, and they were through. He grinned at the sight of their blood. Finally, he made his way to his father. The Baron, so very intoxicated, only just stirred as the Death Knight tied him to his chair. He slowly woke as his hands and feet were bound behind and beneath him with practiced knots.

“Who goes there?” He called, tongue heavy. The small boy stood before him. He sighed with relief, “Emile, untie me.” The Baron glared as the child grinned at him. “What are you waiting for, boy? Can’t you see there’s danger in the manor?” The boy walked toward the Baron, who grew progressively more distraught, “What’s going on, Emile? Is this some sort of joke?” The boy laughed wickedly as he stood beside the man, dagger at the ready. “Emile,” the man’s panic was clear now, “Emile?” The laughter grew ever louder as the boy’s eyes lit up with fierce _joy_.

“Goodbye... _father._ ” 


	2. Part Two: New Faces, New Names

Emile stood before the manor, an arm up to shield his face from the heat. Brown patches of dried liquid cracked as he shifted his position. How did this happen? How could his family have been killed? Why was he spared? Where were Mercedes and his mother? He backed away from the flaming building. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be true.

Not knowing what else to do, he turned his back on the house. Thunder rolled, and lightning lit up the dark night sky. Rain pounded against his skin as his feet pounded against the earth. He ran as fast as he could. Not in any direction, just… away. He ran through the wood, and across the moor. He scrubbed at his skin in an attempt to clean the brown substance from it. He didn’t dare give much thought as to what it was.

He ran into early morning, before the sun rose, before the rain ceased. He slipped several times, scraping his knees, elbows, arms. He ran until his legs could no longer carry him. Only then, when he collapsed before a road, did he rest.

He woke to the staggered beat of footsteps, the creaking of a wagon, and the huffing breath of the horse who pulled it. He turned his head with a swinging motion, his half awake state not lending itself well to controlled movements. Though his eyes remained closed a moment, he felt himself bouncing as the wagon moved. When was he in a wagon? He rubbed his eyes, and groaned as his vision was met with light.

“Ah, welcome to the waking world,” a gruff voice greeted him. When the boy opened his eyes, he saw a blond haired man walking beside the wagon.

“You’ve been asleep a long time,” the man commented, “what’s brought you out here, kid?”

The boy rubbed his face. His mind felt foggy. Something had happened. He spent the night before running. Why? He looked to his hands. They were strange to him. Bigger? Thinner? What? What was going on?

“Who are you?” He asked, eyebrows furrowed in suspicion.

“I could ask the same to you, kid,” the man replied, shaking his head. He sighed, “Look, if you’re in some kind of trouble, I won’t turn you in, okay?” The child did not reply. He simply stared at the man clad in cloth and armor.

“What’s your name?” Asked the man.

“Emile.” Replied the boy. He glanced to the side, a tightness in his chest. That didn’t feel right.

“Where are you headed?”

“A town.”

“A town,” the man repeated the statement with a shake of the head and a tired tone, “any town in specific?”

The child shook his head.

“Alright, well, we’re headed to Enbarr for supplies. We can drop you off there.”

Emile nodded.

The next several weeks consisted of the boy helping these people who had helped him. He learned that they were mercenaries on their way to take care of a group of bandits in Morgaine Ravine. He was taught to sword fight by a man named Stefan, and found that he knew things almost instinctively. He continued to feel fuzzy, however. The longer he was around these mercenaries, in a part of the Empire he had never seen before, the less he could remember. The less he knew of being awake.

He would find himself in the middle of training in clothes he didn’t remember putting on, with a sword he didn’t remember choosing. He would find himself holding food that he could barely stomach, with bites taken out of it as though he had eaten. Occasionally he would have the relief of being in the middle of eating a pastry or a fruit. Why? Where was he now? Who were these people?

A few days later, a monotone voice greeted the boy, “Hey, what was your name again?” He stretched and sat up in his bedroll. A girl, about his age, stood beside him.

“Jeritza,” the boy commented, “why?”

“See, Jeralt, I told you,” a rather boisterous man nudged his companion’s shoulder with a laugh, “the kid’s name is Jeritza. Nothing to do with the Bartels’ heir.” The head of the group frowned. Jeritza furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

“What about the Bartels?” He asked.

Jeralt set his hands on his hips, “Supposedly, the heir murdered his family and hasn’t been seen since,” he paused to bring a hand to his chin, “you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

The boy shook his head, “No, I wouldn’t…”

The man nodded, “Alright. Well, pack up your things. We should be in Ebarr by evening.”

Jeritza breathed a sigh of relief when the adults turned their attention to packing up camp. When he stood, his eyes met the girl’s. They were strange. Not only were they empty, they were hollow. A deep blue devoid of emotion. Not a callous indifference like the sea, rather the true indifference of the void. They complimented the hardness of Jeritza’s gaze well.

“You won’t...tell anyone of this. Will you?” His cool gaze faltered, his voice lilting upward toward the end with concern. The girl shook her head, then left to help her father arrange for departure.

The group made it to Enbarr just as the sun set. They stopped just outside the city gates to have their wagon inspected, but were surprised when the guard questioned them.

“Who’s this?” The group looked to the boy in question, silent for a moment.

Jeralt frowned, “What does it matter?”

“There’s a missing kid, a wanted criminal. And he looks about the right age.” The guard reached out for the boy’s arm, but the rambunctious man from earlier set a firm hand on the kid’s shoulder. The guard looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Jeritza looked at him as well, eyes wide with worry.

“He’s my nephew, sir. His mother died in a bandit raid a few months ago. We’re bringing him here so he can earn a living.” The burly man, Stefan, responded to the guard’s raised eyebrow and suspicious expression with a challenging gaze. His hand held the boy’s shoulder firmly, perhaps a little tightly. But, for some strange reason, Jeritza felt… safe? He didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the security of sober hands, a uniform and defensive grip. Or perhaps he had grown fond of the company over the course of months. But… what would that mean when it came time to say goodbye? Jeritza turned his face away, clenching his jaw. They would have to part ways, of course. He could not allow himself to feel distraught. This was the way things were. He knew this. Still, he could not help the few tears that collected in his eyes and trailed down his cheeks.

The guard backed away, and the burly man commented, “It’s still a fresh wound, sir. If you would be so kind…” He motioned with a hand for the guard to move out of the way, and the man obliged.

As they made their way into the city, and further into the inn, Jeritza heard a raspy voice within his mind. “Sentimental _idiot_ ,” the voice spat with cold ferocity, “they can’t protect you. They don’t _care._ They’ll toss you aside tomorrow...just you wait.” Jeritza tightened his jaw, glaring at the wall in front of him.

“Perhaps we will leave each other,” he thought in response, “but that does not mean… That they do not care…”

The voice scoffed at that, “Your attachment will be your undoing. Your attachment will get us killed.”

Jeritza spoke through gritted teeth, “Stop it…” Amidst the laughter and the chatter of the tavern, the internal argument went unnoticed.

The next morning, things moved slowly. The group lingered at breakfast, putting more food on their plate than they normally would have, reminiscing about the journey and past adventures, and talking hopefully of the future. The man who had been protective of Jeritza sat beside him. He called for the innkeeper, whispering a request and passing a few pieces of currency. The woman smiled back at him, and went to fulfill the request. Jeritza knit his brow out of curiosity and mild concern. When the woman returned, she set a bowl before him. The boy pulled his head back, and looked to Stefan in surprise. The man smiled at him warmly, chuckling. Jeritza raised his brow, “What’s this?”

“I noticed you like sweets,” the round faced man gave a hearty laugh, “well go on, don’t be shy.” The boy looked from his… friend, back to the cool treat in front of him. It was strange. He knew it was ice cream, but he had not yet had personal experience with it.

He picked up his spoon, and scooped up a small piece of the frozen sweet. He brought it to his face, and sniffed it. The man beside him chuckled, and the boy gave him a sideways glance. The ice cream smelled mostly of frost, with the tiniest hint of vanilla. It was… pleasant. He put the spoon in his mouth, removed it, and waited. His eyes widened as the sugary solid shifted into a liquid. The smiling friend chuckled as the child’s shocked expression shifted to a grin. Jeritza put spoonful after spoonful into his mouth, savoring the gentle flavor of vanilla.

Stefan laughed, “Be careful, now, you don’t want to get a headache.”

Later that morning, it came time to part ways. Jeritza helped the group pack their things, and fasten the supplies to the wagon. His movements were slow. He did not smile. His heart was heavy. He made sure to thank Jeralt for his hospitality and for getting him to Enbarr.

“Don’t worry about it, kid. Just, stay out of trouble.” The kid nodded.

“And, here. It’s not much, but it’ll buy you a place to stay until you can get a job.” Jeritza smiled softly when he was handed the currency, “Thank you…”

“You’re welcome. And, uh, Stefan wanted to talk to you.” Jeralt motioned to the other side of the wagon, where Stefan was combing his beard. He smiled when Jeritza approached him.

“Hey! I have something for you!” Jeritza tensed with surprise and tilted his head at the greeting. “Here,” the man said, “hold out your hands.” Jeritza did as he was told. His hands shifted to accompany the weight of a long weapon.

“It’s a rapier,” Stefan breathed a chuckle, “I figured… If this whole Enbarr thing doesn’t work for you, maybe you’d want to come do mercenary work with me.” Jeritza’s mouth pulled into a small smile, “I… I will consider it, should the need arise… Thank you.” The man grinned, “No problem. If you ever want to find me, just send a letter.”

“To where?”

“Oh, to House Hrym. I may be crestless, but they still get my mail to me.” He laughed.

After a few more parting words, Jeritza and the mercenaries finally went their separate ways. And an icy loneliness began to set in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading the next chapter! I'm writing this as I play the game, so since I don't have DLC there won't be any mention of Constance. This fanfic is going to be largely based on headcanons and/or what I think fits based on the characterization created by trying to portray DID more accurately than the game does. I hope you enjoy it!  
> EDIT: Alright, maybe there's a healthy dose of, "Because I wanted it there" too, haha!


	3. Part Three: Wayward Vagabond

Jeritza tried to live life the best way possible. He helped the merchants on the edge of town load and unload their stalls for food. He helped the blacksmiths gather materials for their trade. After two years of scrubbing tavern floors for money, he earned a place to stay in exchange for his service. He did surprisingly well for a young orphan, at least for a while.

He woke with a start, sweat dripping from his brow despite the cold of the room. His body shook, chest tight. Images flashed through his mind. A dark room. A crying girl. A belt coming toward his face. He tried to throw his up hands for protection, but they did little to help. He heard screaming, slashing. He tried to see where the noise came from, but found that he could not see. Where was the crying girl? What had just happened? He found he could not remember the vision after it had passed. “Stop it…” he heard a voice much like his own cry out in the distance. It echoed through the void, but fell dull in his ears. As if at the last second it was absorbed.

Another image flooded the black void. Jeritza found himself in the large house once again, watching from the doorway as three children played in the foyer. He heard laughter. It seemed the children were...dancing? They moved their feet up and down with ferocity, pounding to an unknown song. He tried to step closer, only to find his path obstructed by an invisible force. 

Another scream, desperate and hoarse, echoed through the room. A black devil sprung up from the middle of the ring, his skeletal face sending shivers down Jeritza’s spine. He moved quickly, bringing his fist to one of the children’s faces. The child stumbled back. The devil jumped on top of him. One blow. Two. Three. A pale child of raven hair caught the devil’s ebony arm, twisting it backwards. The demon howled in agony. 

The scene absorbed into the void. What had he just witnessed? The boy stumbled backward, gripping his head to steady his dizzy confusion. The world, though a void, began to spin. What kind of nightmare was this? What _nightmare_? He collapsed, panting. Why couldn’t he remember? He felt terror. Sheer terror. Yet he knew not why. He gripped his chest, wrinkling the white shirt fabric. His heart would not calm, yet he knew not why he felt this way, nor who the feeling originated from. 

Who the feeling originated from? What a ridiculous thought that was. Yet he felt it linger, hanging in his mind amidst the panic. He shook his head, gasping for air. The intangible void gave way to the blackness of closed eyes. He had to open them. He had to find where he was. As he breathed, he felt his heart slow. As his heart slowed, the pressure in his brow lifted. As he opened his eyes, the memory faded. The panic, the terror, the trauma dissolved, melting into confusion. Jeritza ran a hand over his dresser, the smooth oak interrupted by shallow slashes. He furrowed his brow when he saw holes in his pillow and mattress. And as he changed out of his sweat soaked shirt, he wondered if he had somehow been attacked without his knowing. 

This event repeated itself. Jeritza would lay down to sleep, be plagued by panic as something besides himself remembered, and wake to find his room in disarray with no memory of why it was in such a state. The innkeeper, a kindly woman with a round figure, would ask what bothered him so that he howled thus. Jeritza denied ever having done it, but did confess to finding damage to the room every morning. The woman’s face tensed, red eyebrows raised and pink lips pursed.

“Damage? Just what has been going on?” Jeritza’s blond locks swayed to hide his face as he sighed. He set down his rag and beckoned her upstairs. He instructed her to duck under string in the doorway, and the woman complied with a chuckle. However, her eyes widened at the marked door and bed frames. She whimpered at finding the old oak dresser scarred. Her lip quivered upon finding holes in her fine sheets. Jeritza flinched at the hurt in her green eyes, and averted his gaze upon the shock in her voice.

“What... _happened?_ ”

“I am,” he paused, exhaling, “I am unsure…” 

The woman shook her head, “How do you not know? You sleep here!” She gestured with an open hand to the ruined bed. 

“I… I can never remember,” His voice fell heavy, throat tightened, “I have..tried to find the culprit…” He gestured to the broken string in front of his bed, and the unbroken string they passed under. The innkeeper furrowed her eyebrows in confusion.

“It is apparent that...it is my body doing these things,” he clenched his fists and teeth, the innkeeper’s expression softened with concern as the boy continued, “but I don’t remember... _doing_ it.” His voice cracked for the tightness in his throat. Though he would rather not allow himself to cry, it was becoming difficult to hold the tears back. 

“How long has this been happening?” The woman motioned for the boy to sit on the bed as she took a seat in the wooden chair at the foot of it.

“Weeks… That’s not the worst of it...” he tried to speak, but his voice caught. He felt tears well up in his eyes. He inhaled sharply and screwed his eyes shut. He could not cry. He could not allow himself to cry. The innkeeper set a tender hand on his shoulder, and he held his head in his hands, covering his eyes. His body shook with a silent sob, “What’s happening? Why now?” his voice curled and cracked as the innkeeper rubbed his back.

He tried to breathe, tried to calm himself down, but the tears continued to flow. As they flowed, he began to feel disconnected. As he felt himself drift further away (from what, he did not know), he heard a growl.

“Stop crying, boy…” A gravelly voice commanded with a slow tone not unlike a wolf’s growl. Jeritza tried, but could not stop the flow of tears. The voice growled, and he felt his nails dig into the flesh around his eyes, “Stop crying.” The voice commanded again. Jeritza hiccupped and groaned, trying to make the tears stop. His hand slid downward, nails remaining in his skin. He winced. “ _Weakling._ ” the voice commented. It was at this time that the innkeeper snatched the teenager’s hands up by their wrists.

“Jeritza, that’s _enough,_ ” she snapped, “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but this needs to stop.”

“Unhand me.” The boy’s eyes lit with anger, and he snatched his hands away.

The two stared at each other a long time before the boy chuckled at the innkeeper’s disbelieving expression.

“Are you afraid of me…” The voice came out rough and low, much more a statement than a question.

The next morning, Jeritza was packing his things. Knowing that word would get around about the demon within him, he made his way to a different district of Enbarr. There were less opportunities there. Being deeper in the city, merchants weren’t as trusting of strangers offering their help. Inns wouldn’t accept service for shelter; they wanted gold. And while Jeritza had saved up a good amount, the funds ran out after a few weeks.

It was difficult to find a job, and so the boy turned to thievery. A pocket picked here, a house there. Just enough to get by, and always during the day when people were away. At night, when Jeritza had fallen asleep in some forgotten corner, the Death Knight would make his way deeper into the city. Into dark alleyways where victims were made. He would make use of his sword, always growing stronger. Initially, waking up with patched wounds and bloodied clothes unsettled Jeritza-even frightened him-but after some time, it became a normality.

He learned not to cry. Not to show fear. If you showed fear among urchins, you were punished. If you showed weakness, you were harmed. The Death Knight made sure Jeritza learned that well.

“Why do you...do this to me?” The boy looked to the dead cat that lay beside him. He had been forced to watch as the demon (who he had learned called himself the Death Knight) wrung the neck of a feline Jeritza had spent so long bonding with.

The Death Knight laughed within the body’s head, “You’re not crying! Well done…”

Jeritza’s lip pulled up in disgust, “Of course not,” he said, “will you now leave me be?” He stood, holding the cat close. He had to find a place to bury the poor creature.

“Drop it.”

Jeritza looked to the side, his grimace shifting from disgust to anger, “And why should I?”

“Your attachments make you weak. You must focus on battle.”

“Hmph…”

Jeritza grew tired as he settled into his new normal. It became more shocking to wake without evidence from the night before than the alternative. After a few close calls with the guard, he learned to avoid people. He ventured out of the city walls, preferring to battle the beasts surrounding Enbarr than risk growing...attached to something. He grew used to the voice within his head, and hid evidence of the demon’s nightly escapades. However, no one is perfect. It was only a matter of time before the pair were caught.

Suddenly, Jeritza had a new fate to come to terms with. He ignored the Death Knight’s plots of escape, instead focusing on the prospect of beheading. It wasn’t a terrible way to perish, though he would much rather die with his rapier in hand. One of the few attachments he was allowed the three years he had known of the Death Knight. He doubted he would see it again now, as well as anyone beside the city guard. That’s why he was surprised when a white haired girl walked to his cell accompanied by a dark haired man much older than she.

“Hello, Jeritza,” she greeted. Her voice carried an air of duty, though her clothes were ordinary. Perhaps she was a degenerate’s daughter, hoping for answers concerning her father’s death. Jeritza ignored her, choosing instead to scrape at a spot on the stone beneath him. The girl cleared her throat and tossed her head. It was understandable that this man didn’t recognize her. She would have to say something to catch his attention.

“Hello,” she paused, “Emile.” The man stopped playing at the floor a moment, though his eyes did not meet hers. She knew she had his attention, “Tell me, how did the heir to House Bartels come to be in an Enbarr prison?”

Jeritza knew that piece of the body’s history; the Death Knight had explained it in detail over the years. Still, he did not wish to speak of something _he_ had no part in.

He sighed, filthy blond hair falling to hide his face, “Why?” His voice was airy and tired.

“I have heard of your battles with beasts. You’re a spectacular swordsman,” the girl gestured to the man with an open palm, “it makes no sense why someone of your skill would choose the kind of life you’ve led.”

“And what life is that?” Jeritza spoke slowly, eyes half closed. He wanted to know how much this girl knew of him.

“A life of thievery and poverty,” her tone was incredulous, “after all, you have a crest. You could have a territory and army by now.”

Jeritza shook his head, “My crest... has brought nothing but pain.”

The woman’s downcast eyes held sympathy, though she could not help but find this fortunate, “How so?”

He exhaled heavily. It seemed this girl would not leave until she knew his tale. “I was...the last of my family to bear a crest. They treated,” he paused as he tried to remember, “my sister and I terribly.”

The woman nodded, “Is that why you killed House Bartels?”

Jeritza shook his head again, “That was not...me,” he breathed, “it was the Death Knight. A demon...who lives within me.”

The woman’s eyes widened, and she took a step back in surprised, “Oh? Why would he do that?”

“He craves bloodshed. That is that nature of his existence,” he turned his head away from the girl, “I have...tried to stop him. But there is nothing I can do…”

The woman hummed in thought, “I have an idea,” Jeritza lifted his head at her words, “if you were to lend me your strength, I could supply this Death Knight with battlefield after battlefield. His thirst for blood would be satiated, and I could make use of your skill.” The girl smiled, eyes determined. Though she was young, she was focused.

“And who might you be?” The young man asked, wary of allowing for hope.

“I am Edelgard von Hresvelg,” she bowed slightly upon stating her name, “Imperial princess and heir to the Adrestian empire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update. Thank you for continuing to read. I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This isn't the whole story, don't worry. I just thought I'd upload a chapter at a time. I hope y'all enjoy it!
> 
> EDIT (5/14/2020): Hey, the whole pandemic thing has got us really stressed, so this is going to be on hiatus until either the covid-19 thing is dealt with, or I start writing a ridiculous amount to cope. I hope y'all enjoy this little prologue bit in the meantime.
> 
> EDIT (8/21/2020): Hey again. So, it's been three months and I still can't make any progress on this. As such, I'll be changing this from a ship fic to a headcanon-backstory for Jeritza/Death Knight. Sorry to disappoint anyone who was reading for the eventual shipping.


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